


Both Hands Free

by unsettled



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Coming Untouched, D/s undertones, Earth 833 bullshit, Emotional Manipulation, Established Relationship, Lies, M/M, Manipulation, New Year's Eve, Overthinking, Pet Names, Praise Kink, Quentin is still an asshole, Quentin is such a goner, Riding, Teasing, Turnabout is Fair Play, holiday fic, peter is a sap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:40:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28366311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: Peter's become so much more sure of himself over the past few months, but there are still so many soft, vulnerable things for Quentin to play with. Like how much he wants to hear that he's good, that he's special; well, it's going to be fun to see how far Quentin can push that.After all, it's not like he believes any of the things he tells Peter. Of course not. It's just fun to take him apart.That's all it is.
Relationships: Quentin Beck/Peter Parker
Comments: 12
Kudos: 57





	Both Hands Free

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is a scene from my lengthy WIP; it's probably not the best idea to post it on its own, but a) it's the new year and this scene matches, and b) I need some external validation, lol.
> 
> I'm curious how this will come across, if it will work as a stand alone for the moment. Heed the tags though - this is fairly fluffy smut, but the undertones aren't good.

“Do you guys have that saying about New Year’s Eve?” Peter asks, sprawled out next to him on the couch, his head tucked against Quentin’s arm. They’re sharing a bowl of popcorn—technically sharing, though Quentin thinks he’s getting about one kernel to Peter’s ten—and idly flipping back and forth between New Year’s broadcasts while they wait for midnight. 

Peter had insisted. 

“What, the one about hands and treasure?” Quentin says, because even though he’d thought it was a little dumb, still thought so, Guterman had come up with a whole list of weird, skewed sayings from ‘Earth 833’.

“Wait, what?”

Quentin laughs. “I take that’s different, then.”

“What does that even mean?” Peter asks. 

“Oh, it’s like— uh, no matter how bright the treasure, you only have two hands,” Quentin says. “Something like that, at least.”

Peter’s brow wrinkles. “Okay,” he says, “but what does it _mean?”_

“Sort of like, you can’t— if your hands are full, you can’t pick something else up without dropping one of the things you’re holding,” Quentin says. “Hey, don’t look at me like that, I know that’s just common sense! That’s just the literal thing, it’s supposed to mean something more like— if your life is too full, if you’re trying to do too much, or even if you just have enough, you can’t start something new or take on something new, no matter how amazing it might be, without letting go of something else. Uh, I guess sort of the same idea as letting go of your past to move on? But more literal.”

“And that’s a New Year’s thing?”

“Well,” Quentin says, “it’s kind of traditional, start of the new year, you decide if there’s something you’re ready to set down so you might have a free hand, if something comes along, or if there’s something you’ve been thinking of doing.”

“Huh,” Peter says. “I guess that’s kind of nice, nicer than resolutions at least. Honestly I think New Year's resolutions just exist to make you feel bad in a month or two.”

“Oh, we have those too,” Quentin says, grinning. “So wait, what’s your saying then?”

“Uh, it’s not as like, deep as yours,” Peter mutters. “Just, whatever you’re doing when the new year starts is what you’ll be doing for the whole year. So like, make sure it’s something nice, at least.”

“Something nice, hmm?” Quentin says, raising an eyebrow. “I wonder what that might be.”

Peter blushes. “No! I mean. Yeah it could be! But that’s not, it’s just like. Ugh, Quentin,” dragging Quentin’s name out in a long, exasperated whine. 

“I’m just saying!” Quentin says, teasing. “What, you wouldn’t want to?”

“Normally people just kiss,” Peter mutters, but he scoots over easily when Quentin twists his fingers in Peter’s shirt and tugs him closer. 

“We can do that too,” he says, right before he kisses Peter. 

Peter leans into his kisses, happily, like he always does, his lips soft and warm and his mouth opens easily when Quentin presses, the slightest bit. He sighs, his hands pressing down against Quentin’s thigh, pushing himself up a little to meet Quentin with a bit more force, trying to direct things, and Quentin nips gently at Peter’s lip. 

“Behave,” he whispers, and Peter goes all soft and sweet again, tempting. Laughs, softly, a little huff of breath, silenced when Quentin slides his tongue into Peter’s mouth, brushing against Peter’s, and then Peter catches his tongue between his teeth for a moment, nothing more than a hint of a bite, really. 

Quentin growls at him for that, for setting that trap, and Peter releases him, grinning against Quentin’s mouth. He gasps, though, when Quentin fists his hand in Peter’s hair and pulls, tips his head back. “Minx,” he says, and doesn’t give Peter a chance this time, kissing him hard, holding in him place while he presses his other hand against the front of Peter’s pants, Peter whining softly, that perfect little noise caught in the back of his throat. 

“Still just want to kiss?” Quentin asks, his lips brushing Peter’s.

“Ugh, you—” Peter moans, “obviously not, you tease.”

Quentin draws back, just a bit. “Why don’t you do get some lube, baby,” he says, running his thumb along the line of Peter’s jaw. “I wanna have you ride me, yeah?”

Peter jolts, letting out a tiny moan. “Yeah,” he whispers, “yeah, okay,” and then he turns his head and kisses Quentin’s thumb before he gets up. 

Quentin presses his hand down on his cock, dropping his head back against the top of the couch; fuck, he loves having Peter like this, being able to watch him, have him do the work, fuck himself, show off how badly he wants it. He hooks his thumbs on the waistband of his pants and shoves them down, kicks them off the rest of the way. 

“Quentin,” he hears, and looks up, to where Peter is standing, lube in hand and completely naked, staring at him. 

“Oh, look at you,” he says. “Someone’s eager.”

Peter laughs a little, walking to him. “Uh, I’m not the only one!”

Quentin reaches up and sets his hands to Peter’s hips. “Definitely not,” he agrees. “Still, you’re worth a look or two,” he adds, as Peter kneels over him and settles onto his lap. 

“God, you’re so—” Peter bites his lip, and turns his head away for a moment. “Here,” he says, passing Quentin the lube. “Uh, you or me?”

“Oh, me, I think,” Quentin tells him, opening the bottle, and Peter squirms a little.

Really, Peter doesn’t need that much, hasn’t ever, even when Quentin was trying to be careful with him, but when he’s in the right mood Quentin still likes to take his time, likes to ease himself into Peter, because it’s just so much fun. It’s so good, watching the little faces Peter makes, the way he catches his bottom lip ever so slightly, how his cock twitches, how he arches his back and clutches at whatever’s nearest and closes his eyes, always opens them again like he can’t not look at Quentin. 

He’ll admit, Peter ruined him with his reactions the first time Quentin had done this, the first time he watched Peter take so much of his hand and still beg for more, had planted this want for more of that from Peter that Quentin is never going to be able to root out. 

Goddamn, he doesn’t mind that much, in the end, he thinks, feeling every little twitch as Peter fucks himself back onto two of Quentin’s fingers, hitches just a little every time his knuckles slide in, and out. Nothing wrong with appreciating beautiful things. 

Peter’s whining softly by the time he’s pressed three into him, by the time he’s flattened them and hooked them just above that ring of muscle, pulling at it slightly, Peter so open around him. “There you go, sweetheart,” Quentin tells him, and pulls out, rubs a bit of lube over his cock. Peter kneels up, puts his hands on Quentin’s shoulders and tightens them, fingers digging in a bit, as he lets Quentin slide along the cleft of his ass.

He’s a fucking tease, pressing just barely down onto the head of Quentin’s cock, and then lifting back up, just easing him in and out and Quentin growls at him after the third time, Peter ducking his head like he thinks he can hide that smug little smile. “I know you want more than that,” Quentin says roughly, and Peter huffs out a small laugh as he finally sinks further down, sinks all the way down. 

Peter stops, stills with Quentin all inside him, his body drawn up, arched, but not tense, not uncomfortable, his head tilted back, just feeling it, Quentin thinks, and he can’t blame him, because Peter feels amazing, always. He brings a hand up and wraps it around Peter’s wrist, where his hand is resting on Quentin’s shoulder; rubs his thumb softly along the underside, that soft skin, the pulse of his heartbeat. 

“God, you’re gorgeous,” Quentin tells him, and Peter blushes, tucking his head down further, hiding, and starts rocking on Quentin’s cock, just little movements, more grinding onto him. 

Quentin laughs, softly, rocking up to meet him. “Don’t play shy, honey,” he says, “you love hearing that.”

Peter shakes his head, more of a little sideways twitch, really. “I— I don’t know,” he whispers. 

“You do,” Quentin tells him. “You know you do, you’re an absolute slut for it.”

“Quentin!” and Peter actually glares at him a little, like he thinks he can deny it, at all. Fucking ridiculous. 

A little adorable. 

“Honestly, Peter,” he murmurs, “how many times have you come just after I’ve told you how good you are? How good you look and feel, after I’ve told you you’re amazing, incredible?”

“Don’t,” Peter whispers. “It’s not, it’s not like that.”

“No?” Quentin says, teasing. “Really, treasure? You’re going to pretend you don’t love it when I tell you how insanely hot you are? Going to try and pretend I can’t feel how you clench every time I call you an absolute treat?”

And he does, does just like he is now, and Peter can’t deny it as he feels himself do it. “You can’t tell me things like that,” Peter whines.

“Or what?”

Peter stills, pulls his hands from Quentin’s shoulders and hides his face, such a ridiculously shy move for someone literally sitting on Quentin’s cock. “Or I’ll come,” Peter admits, quietly, embarrassed.

Quentin hums. “You think so?” he asks.

Peter presses his hands tighter to his face, hunching in a bit. “You just said-” he starts, before sighing. “Yeah,” he says. 

“That’s wonderful,” Quentin says, and Peter twitches. “Oh yeah baby, that’s fucking delightful. You’re such a wonderful, impossible thing.”

“Stop,” Peter whispers, “Quentin, stop.”

“Stop telling you how good you are?” Quentin asks, and doesn’t even wait for Peter to nod before he shakes his head. “No.”

He brings his hands up, wraps them around Peter’s wrists, not tugging his hands away from his face just yet, but the warning is there, that he might. “I’m not going to stop telling you what I think of you,” he says. 

Pulls his hands away from Peter’s wrists, making it Peter’s choice if he stops hiding, or not, and sets them to Peter’s waist instead. “I want to see what happens,” Quentin tells him, and presses down a bit, pinning Peter in place. “You don’t get a say in what I have to say about you,” he adds.

“It’s— it’s not going to work,” Peter whispers, squirming at that, fighting against Quentin’s hands a little, but he stills when Quentin tightens his fingers. 

“You have no idea,” Quentin says, “no clue how fucking beautiful you are.” Peter moans, softly, and leans forward, hiding his face, still buried in his hands, against Quentin’s shoulder, like he needs even more protection from Quentin’s words, and Quentin lets him for now. “Gorgeous,” he adds, “absolutely stunning, Peter; you’re so lithe, just fit into my arms perfectly, like you were made for me. You’re so strong, the muscles on you, god— your shoulders are fucking divine, honey,” and Peter whimpers, turning his hands out to clutch at Quentin’s shoulder, pressing his face into them.

“You’re soft,” Quentin says, turning his head a little so he’s almost speaking into Peter’s ear, “your skin is so soft, I love touching you, love the way you feel under my hands, and you’re so perfectly, wonderfully sensitive, so delicate and yet you take absolutely everything I do to you even if it drowns you.”

Peter’s shivering, faintly, and Quentin nips at his ear, drawing a startled little breath from him. “You have the most expressive face,” Quentin says. “You blush so easy; I love seeing that, watching it spread all down your neck and your shoulders and your chest, seeing how far I can make it go. And your hair, god, it’s always such a— you’re never more than a moment away from it becoming an utter disaster, I swear, but it looks ridiculously good on you, and I am never going to get enough of playing with it, with how sweet you go when I do.” He nuzzles softly at Peter’s neck, and Peter shivers, more, moaning softly against Quentin’s neck. “Just like that,” Quentin whispers. “Just like that, sweetheart, so fucking amazing.” He kisses the same spot, speaks right into it, his lips brushing Peter’s skin. “Your eyes are stunning, baby, just fucking—” he breaks off for a second, sighing against Peter’s neck, because what can he say, really, that’s not— that’s—

“They’re brown,” Peter mutters, shaking his head, slightly. “They’re just brown, it’s boring.”

“No,” Quentin says, immediately. “There’s nothing boring about you, precious.” Ah, fuck it, it doesn’t matter, Peter has no way to tell what Quentin shouldn’t be telling him, shouldn’t be feeling. “They’re brown,” he says, “they’re amber, they’re honey, they’re tiger eye, they fucking glow when the light catches them just right; they’re beautiful, don’t you dare say they’re not. And they notice everything, you notice everything, fuck, when you look at me, when you watch me, it’s like you find things I didn’t even know about, like you hook into me and— your eyes are dangerous, baby, like a fucking trap. You look at me and I can’t look away.”

Peter’s gone still, the shivering stopped, his breath quieting, and then he pulls back away from Quentin’s shoulder, leaving his hands there, back until Quentin can see his face, can see his eyes, how Peter is staring at him, his mouth open, flushed.

“Yeah,” Quentin says, softly, “yeah, just like that, Peter, fuck.” He brings one hand up, slides it along the curve of Peter’s face, tangles his fingers in Peter’s hair, Peter’s eyes slitting but not closing all the way, still watching him. “You’ve got me so fucking trapped,” Quentin whispers, and Peter bites his lip. 

Draws in a breath, like he’s going to says something, and freezes. Closes his eyes and turns into Quentin’s hand a little, hiding again. “What else?” he whispers, so very softly, and Quentin cannot fucking believe him, _cannot._

He laughs, helplessly, and then, when Peter flinches, ever so slightly, he rushes on. “You’re a delight, sweetheart, god. Listen to you, you— you didn’t know a thing, the first time I kissed you, the first time I touched you, the first time you touched me, not a single thing and you were still incredible. And now, now— you’ve learned so fast, so well, learned so, so much, things I haven’t even shown you and you’re unbelievable; I can’t believe how often you completely do me in, how you know just how to pull me apart. You’re such a fucking tease, and you know it, you’re so desperate for it, so needy, such a perfect little slut and it’s wonderful.”

The noise Peter makes isn’t quite a whimper, isn’t quite a whine— something broken and high pitched and he’s shuddering, his breath coming faster and faster, drops of precome running down his cock as it throbs. 

He runs his thumb over the line of Peter’s cheekbone, and Peter opens his eyes, just a bit, looks back at him. 

“You’re not just sexy,” Quentin says. “Fuck, you are, but you’re not just that, you’re— you’re clever, and quick, and so smart, so, so smart, I can’t wait to see what you wind up doing.” Peter jerks, tries to turn away again, but Quentin’s not having it this time, enough is enough. “No,” he says, turning his hand to grip at Peter’s jaw, “no, you look at me, you don’t hide from this.”

Peter moans, low, almost a sob, almost a no, and his hands slide to hook around the back of Quentin’s neck, clinging. “You’re smart,” Quentin repeats, “and you’re clever, and brave, and _fierce,_ god, and so fucking openhearted, you’re such a ridiculously kind, sweet thing. You’re much, much too good for me, for anyone, but— god, Peter, I couldn’t ever let go of something as precious as you,” and Peter does sob then, actual tears running down the side of his face as his hands tighten on Quentin, as his whole body tenses, shudders, as he comes.

Fuck, yes, Quentin thinks, as Peter falls apart, he’d thought maybe it would work, that it had a good chance of getting Peter off, but seeing it work? Seeing Peter actually come from nothing more than Quentin praising him, having Peter give in and sink into it when it left him so raw and open? God, that’s intoxicating, unreal; nothing he could have imagined, daydreaming about this, could have come anywhere close. He feels almost dizzy.

Peter’s hands drop from where they’ve been clutching at Quentin’s neck, rest on his shoulders, shaking. His head is still thrown back, eyes closed, still tensed, so tight around Quentin’s cock. Quentin’s been so patient; it’s been so hard not to fuck into Peter while he was squirming around, but now, now he can have him. 

He slides his hands to Peter's shoulders, Peter shuddering and relaxing a little as Quentin’s hands run over him, and then he pulls Peter closer, all the way forward against Quentin. Peter moans and nuzzles into Quentin’s neck; Quentin slides his hands back down, grabs Peter’s ass, and starts moving him.

Peter has gone limp, clinging to him, not resisting at all as Quentin lifts him up, as he slides Peter up and down, just giving in to whatever Quentin wants, anything Quentin wants. It’s such a fucking turn on, whenever Peter gets like that, and such a temptation, because Quentin can’t ever stop himself from thinking of what he could do. How easy, how simple it would be to shift from whatever they’re doing to something else, something rougher or meaner or more claiming, something Peter might not like, might not be ready to admit he likes, and he always has to remind himself he shouldn’t, he can’t risk it. 

But it’s always there, in his thoughts, when Peter gives himself over, and one day Quentin is going to break if this keeps on, one day he is going to snap and take everything Peter has, even if it ruins Peter. He knows himself, he knows he has his limits, and one day Peter’s going to go soft and pliant and so, so sweet and Quentin is going to not be able to stop himself. He’s holding it off as long as he can, because—

Because of EDITH, obviously, but beneath that, secondary to that, he wonders if maybe— if maybe it wouldn’t ruin Peter. If maybe Peter could take him, if maybe even at Quentin’s worst, Peter could take it, and that’s— that’s—

Peter sighs quietly, against his shoulder, and Quentin shudders, thinking of how easy it would be to turn his head and sink his teeth into Peter’s neck, how easy to hurt him, how Peter would let him. 

It’s not that day, though, so he turns his head and kisses Peter’s temple instead, so softly it’s barely a touch. It’s not today, so he bites his lip and loosens his hands on Peter’s ass and grinds up into him slowly, letting himself focus on how loose Peter’s gone, how warm and slick and soft he is, like Quentin could fuck into him endlessly. 

He draws it out like that, running a hand up and down Peter’s back, over his skin, looking at how it’s caught the warm glow of the lamp, how it looks almost plush, almost burnished, diffusing the light. The sound of the TV is quiet in the background, a little squeak now and then from the couch as they shift, the soft, wet sound of his cock sliding into Peter.

The barely there sound of Peter whispering, his lips moving against Quentin’s shoulder, and Quentin could almost ignore what he’s saying, almost pretend he can’t hear it, and that might be easier than acknowledging how Peter is praising _him._

“You’re amazing,” Peter whispers, “so amazing, Quentin, you’re so unbelievably good at this, so good to me, you make me feel so much, I can’t— I don’t know what made you pick me but I’m so lucky, Quentin, I’m so lucky you wanted me, you’re so perfect.” 

Stop, Quentin thinks, even as something turns over in his stomach, something hot and heavy, even as he feels his face heat, even as his breath comes faster, God, Peter, stop, you’re not lucky, you’re— you’re so fucking unlucky it’s not even funny anymore.

“I don’t deserve you, you’re— you’re too good, too much, Quentin, fuck, you’re—” Peter breaks off, a moan catching him instead. “You’re so nice,” Peter continues, pants out, “you’re so smart and kind and funny and hot and strong and— and, fuck, you see me, Quentin, you understand me, you peel me apart and I can’t hide from you and it’s so— it’s unreal, I can’t hide from you, I can’t, I don’t want to, you— you’ve got me, Quentin, thank you, thank you,” and Jesus fucking Christ, it’s true, Quentin peels him open and uses him and takes everything Peter has to give and Peter thinks he’s lucky, Peter’s _thanking_ him for it, fuck, fuck, he can’t—

He’s silent as he comes, can’t even seem to breathe at all, just tightens his arms around Peter and curls his head forward over Peter’s shoulder and his mind goes blank, empty, hollowed out by the almost incandescent pleasure of hearing Peter thank him for ruining him. 

Quentin just stays like that, for some time, silent and unable to loosen his hold on Peter. There’s nothing he can really say in response to that, but he doesn’t have to, and at least Peter’s stopped, is just kissing Quentin’s skin instead. He jolts a little as he softens enough to slide out of Peter, unpleasantly, and Peter catches his breath, rubbing himself forward on Quentin’s legs. 

Of course he’s hard again, Quentin thinks, amused. Peter’s so greedy, once is never enough for him. 

Peter pulls his head away from Quentin, groans softly as he settles his weight back on his legs a little more. His face is red and a little sweaty, his hair an absolute disaster, and his expression is decidedly dazed. “I can’t believe that worked,” he says. 

Quentin smiles at him. “I thought it might,” he says, teasing lightly. “After all, you’re such a sensitive thing.”

Peter scrunches his nose, frowns a little. “It’s embarrassing,” he sighs.

“Oh, honey,” Quentin says, “embarrassment wasn’t what you were feeling."

“Quentin!” 

Quentin laughs, then, because it’s true, he wasn’t feeling embarrassed while Quentin was praising him, not then. “It’s good thing you like hearing that as much as I like saying it,” he says. 

Peter ducks his head, shy. “I can’t imagine you like that as much,” he mutters. 

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Quentin says, and Peter looks back up at him, his eyes dark, in shadow, the brown blending with the black. Beautiful. 

“Really?” Peter asks, softly.

“Why shouldn’t I enjoy telling my things how good they are?” Quentin says, and Peter goes still. “Like I would have anything less than the best.”

“Fuck,” Peter whispers, staring at him. 

Quentin smiles, and it’s— he knows it’s not a nice one, not really. “Think I could make you come like that again, now?”

“I will die,” Peter says, almost managing to be serious, his mouth twitching as he tries to hide his smile. “I will straight up die, Quentin.”

“You think?”

“Die,” Peter repeats, “and then what will you do?”

“Oh, alright,” Quentin says, a little amused. “I suppose the real question here is if you want to come in this year or the next.”

Peter bursts out in laughter. “Really?” he asks. 

Quentin grins at him. “Better make up your mind, treasure,. Not a lot of time left.”

“Oh?” Peter says, archly, “do you think you can get me off in,” he twists around, until he can see the screen, “uh, six minutes?”

“Oh, honey,” Quentin says, wrapping his hand around Peter’s cock. “Didn’t you just lose when you thought I couldn’t get you off like that? Are you sure you really want to challenge me again?”

Peter’s eyes have gone wide. “Haven’t you learned I always win?” Quentin adds, and Peter gasps when Quentin hooks a hand under him, slides his fingers back into Peter, even wetter and looser than before, come slowly dripping out of him. 

“That’s not fair,” Peter whines, shuddering as Quentin shoves three into him, so easily. “Not— not fair, Quentin.”

“You should know by now I don’t play fair, baby,” Quentin tells him, and presses his fingers against Peter’s prostate, rubbing his thumb over the head of Peter’s cock in the same moment, Peter crying out harshly. “You can try not to come, if you want,” Quentin says, teasing. 

Maybe Peter is trying, but he’s doing a terrible job, really, coming up to that edge so, so fast, and that’s not quite what Quentin was planning. He eases off, just a bit, slowing, and Peter whimpers, wiggles. “Quentin,” he gasps, “fuck, don’t, let me please.”

“Don’t you want to win?” Quentin asks, and Peter groans.

Quentin’s listening, waiting for the count to start, even though he can barely hear the TV. Ten, he hears, and he tightens his hand around Peter’s cock, slides it down hard and fast as he rubs his fingers over that painfully swollen bump inside Peter. Eight, and Peter is thrashing, making beautiful little choked noises, Quentin’s hand moves faster, faster. Five, and Peter is coming, thrusting up into Quentin’s hand, come landing thick and hot on Quentin’s shirt, enough that he can feel it as it soaks in, Peter moaning so loudly Quentin can barely hear the final few seconds. 

Close enough, he thinks, and wraps his hand around the nape of Peter’s neck, drags him in while he’s still panting and shuddering and kisses him, the cheers on the TV louder than the count as the ball drops, as the new year turns over. 

Peter groans and kisses him back, sinks into it and lets Quentin guide him along, kissing until Peter’s gasping for breath again. He lets him go, then, and Peter has gone so limp he almost tips back off Quentin’s lap, right off the couch. Quentin grabs at him hurriedly, and manages to tip him over to the side instead, where he flops out along the couch, still half on Quentin. 

“Guh,” Peter mutters. “I— ugh, fuck.”

“Oh yeah?” Quentin says.

“Shut up,” Peter says. He closes his eyes, and smiles. “You’re such a sap,” he adds. “Making sure we kiss at midnight, seriously.”

“Hey,” Quentin says, mildly, because it is a sappy thing to do, even if he only did it because Peter loves that shit. 

“I’m not complaining,” Peter says, still smiling, that broad, goofy one that he can’t seem to control at all. 

“Yeah, I don’t think you have anything to complain about,” Quentin tells him. 

Peter hums. 

“Hey,” he says, after a minute. “Wait, did I win?”

“What? No, of course not.”

“But like. Is midnight the previous year, or the new year?” Peter says, sounding a little distracted. 

“The previous year, obviously,” Quentin says, rolling his eyes.

“No, I think it’s the new one,” Peter argues. “Like, one second after twelve is obviously the next day, so twelve on the dot has to be too, right?”

“It’s the last moment of the previous year,” Quentin says, and he can’t believe they’re actually debating this. “You wouldn’t end it at one second before midnight, that second of time between eleven fifty nine and fifty nine seconds and twelve and one second is part of the previous year.”

“Nah, I don’t think so!”

“Ugh, it doesn’t matter,” Quentin says, “You came a few seconds before anyway.”

“But then I came a few seconds after too!” Peter says, grinning, so fucking argumentative.

“You’re such a pain,” Quentin tells him. “How about we both win?”

“Okay,” Peter says, “still means you lose some.”

“A pain,” Quentin tells him, “a giant, giant pain.”

He stands up, rolling his shoulders a little as he turns off the TV. “You coming?” he asks as he starts down the hall. 

“In a minute,” Peter says, “I don’t think I can move yet.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” Quentin says. Still, it means he’ll get the shower to himself for a least a minute or two; Peter is the worst at just waiting his turn. 

Peter joins him soon enough, but not before Quentin is basically done, so he just surrenders the shower to Peter, brushing his teeth before he heads back to the living room; takes a minute to wipe off the couch, because it’ll be a much longer task tomorrow if he doesn’t. Though he could always make Peter do it. 

When he gets back to the bedroom, Peter’s already there, sprawled out on the bed with his feet hanging off the edge, like he just tipped over backwards. He probably did, actually. “You planning on sleeping like that?” Quentin says, poking his foot, and Peter grumbles. 

“You know,” Quentin says, looking down at Peter, a little slyly. “If you’re going to be so particular about whether or not that counted as before or after midnight, maybe we should make sure you come in the new year too, hmm?”

Peter opens his eyes and look up at Quentin. “Just to even it out, huh?” he says.

“Might as well,” Quentin says, and slides his hands behind Peter’s knees, pulling him further over the edge of the bed. 

Kneels, and Peter lets out a soft, startled ‘oh’ as Quentin takes his cock in hand, lifts it up a bit and licks up the length of it. 

It doesn’t take much for Peter to get hard again, not much at all to have him moaning softly, to have him sliding his hands into Quentin’s hair, carding his fingers through it softly, gently, jerking a little any time Quentin presses Peter a little harder, goes a little faster, harder. 

He likes this, Quentin thinks, he almost always likes this, so why can’t he seem to concentrate? Why are his thoughts so fucking loud, shouting out the simpler focus of feeling Peter, listening to him, teasing him along? He feels unsteady, like something forgotten is niggling at him, and when Peter brings his leg up and hooks it over Quentin’s shoulder, he feels unpleasantly caught, pinned in. 

Peter has him all out of sorts lately.

It’s got to be something about the way Peter is touching him, his hands tangled in Quentin’s hair, running down the sides of his face and over his beard and along his neck, back and forth. How Peter brushes his thumb over the edge of Quentin's lips where they’re wrapped around Peter’s cock, traces his fingertips over Quentin’s forehead, delicately along his brows, Quentin closing his eyes and holding still for a moment as Peter touches his eyelids, so faint, gone again in less than a heartbeat. 

He’s not being forceful, not even directing Quentin at all, nothing, but the threat is still implied, the risk still there. Quentin is very aware that if Peter wanted, if Peter decided to hold him in place or move him or do whatever he wanted with Quentin, Quentin couldn’t just stop him. He couldn’t break away with hurting Peter, badly, or himself, and he’s never felt like that, doing this, never felt like maybe it wasn’t down to what he wanted to do.

Peter thrusts up into his mouth, just a little, and Quentin’s breath catches, even as he tilts his head a little more and lets Peter sink deeper into his throat, Peter making that beautiful long whine that’s become so familiar. 

Is that something Peter might even want, at some point, Quentin wonders, something he even thinks of, is just too worried to ask for it? He wouldn’t have thought so, hadn’t even considered worrying about it, but Peter has been getting these little flashes of— assertiveness, challenge, something like that. Maybe Peter’s testing the waters?

Peter tightens his hands in Quentin’s hair, and as Quentin tugs back a little, loosens them, letting him go. Which wasn’t quite what Quentin had intended; he'd just been looking for that little bit of tension, so he presses his head back into Peter’s hands, and this time Peter seems to catch on, curling his fingers a little tighter, pulling gently, the pressure of it spread out enough it isn’t painful or sharp, just present. 

No, Quentin decides, feeling it sink into him with absolutely certainty, thinking of how Peter has always been so worried, so eager for reassurance that it was okay every time he’s pushed things, how Peter has always, always halted himself when he’s not sure if that noise, that movement Quentin made was a good one; no, Peter would never deliberately hurt him. Would probably never even do so accidentally, carelessly, and if he did, he’d be devastated. 

Peter’s whimpering softly, his toes curling against Quentin’s thigh, his other leg pulling Quentin a little closer, tense; he hums, sucks a little bit harder on the next withdrawal, and then Peter is coming again, his breath catching, panting out of him. 

He turns toward Quentin when Quentin crawls up onto the bed, reaches for him, and Quentin gathers him up closer. Peter might push a little, he thinks, rubbing his thumb over that soft spot just below Peter’s ear, might play at it, but he doesn’t want to hurt Quentin. He seems to think he’s giving Quentin something he wants, which is a bit odd, really, but that’s the only motivation in Peter’s mind, nothing more. Not that he can tell, at least.

Peter drifts off soon enough, but Quentin can seem to fall asleep, can’t seem to relax, his mind still going off, frustratingly. 

He can’t pretend things aren’t different, with Peter. Well, he can, but it wouldn't help anything. And things are different, they just— are.

He’s not sure if it’s that Peter is so different than anything he’s ever sought out; his mind so unlike the sorts of people Quentin normally plays with, Peter’s wants, his needs, his very base personalty dissimilar, still broken but in other ways altogether. Or if it’s that the game he is playing with Peter is nothing like the games he’s played with others, the stakes so much higher, more dangerous. 

How he can’t just discard Peter if things start to sour; he has to try and fix it, like he’s almost never bothered to before. Or maybe it’s the fact that so much more of this is a lie, is lies built on lies built on lies and the fragments of truth he’s left in, that have slipped in, are sometimes just as hard to keep track of, just as unreal as the lies. 

It’s work, it’s a hell of a lot of work, keeping up with Peter and keeping up with his lies and keeping some of his more vicious wants bound up and out of the way.

He’s thought a few times, when Peter has been exceptionally trying, when that urge is itching unbearably under Quentin’s skin, of going out and picking up someone to take it out on, to take the edge off his temper. Hell, even of hiring someone, but every time he’d just… decided not to, in the end. Mostly because he was a little worried that if he let himself give in like that, if he reminded himself of what he wasn’t allowed with Peter, he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking of it, that the desire that’s still always there would just grow, more. But part of it—

He’d actually gone out, once, gone out and looked and considered and smiled at the pretty boys that offered to buy him drinks or take him out back or go home with him, and dismissed every one, all of them falling short in some way that irked him. There was one, very quiet, very soft, a pretty short brunette with green eyes that was more appealing then the rest, who he’d been sure would be incredibly easy to make cry, but— he’d looked at them, talked to them for a few minutes, and all their soft spots, broken bits, had been so glaringly obvious; abandonment and low confidence and shame over being gay, over liking it rough, trying to cover up with this veneer of slutty swagger, and he’d just felt so bored by all of it. He could take that boy apart in five minutes, and then what would he do? 

He’d left, that pretty little thing confused when he’d turned them down, and come home, come home and not slept at all, and the next day Peter had dragged him to some stupid event he had no interest in and held his hand like they were some cutesy couple and stared down some asshole that raised an eyebrow at them and turned over another tiny fragment of himself for Quentin to examine, to try and fit together with all the others. 

No wonder that sweet boy had seemed like a waste of time. 

Is that what’s so different about Peter? That Quentin is still finding things to tear into, even now? That there still are things to find? It doesn’t seem enough, really, doesn’t quite seem to fit, but what else is there?

God, he needs to just - stop, stop thinking about this for a little. Stop letting Peter get under his skin, stop infecting him with these unsettling thoughts, these behaviors that are completely out of step with what he feels, what he needs to be doing. 

Well, he’ll have a little surprise for Peter, in the morning. Maybe that will get things back on track again.

#### *

Peter stirs, making a little grumbly noise, and flops over on his back. It’s about time, Quentin thinks, from where he’s propped up, watching Peter, his back against the headboard. 

“Ugh,” Peter moans, and flops over again, running into Quentin this time. He tilts his head back and smiles. “Morning.”

“Morning to you too, treasure,” Quentin says, and takes a sip of his coffee.

Waits.

Peter’s eyes follow the cup. “Did you bring me some?” he asks.

“Of course not,” Quentin says, and Peter wrinkles his nose, and then grabs at the mug. “Hey, uhn uhn, not happening,” Quentin tells him, lifting it almost out of his reach unless he actually sits up.

“The worst,” Peter moans, and then sinks down, curled up next to Quentin and watching him drink.

Quentin waits.

Peter’s looking a little more awake, sort of distracted as he watches Quentin, and then— and then Quentin feels the moment Peter sees, how Peter stills, even his breath stopping. 

“Your ring is gone,” Peter whispers. 

Quentin doesn’t say anything, just looks at him, at how Peter’s eyes have gone wide, how he’s frozen, like any move might be the wrong one. 

He switches the mug to his other hand, and spreads out the ringless one, fingers flat, just over his leg. Peter looks at it, and Quentin does too. 

He’d worried at first that he hadn’t worn it long enough for there to much of a line, but it hadn’t been a problem in the end, and the pale line is almost more obvious than the ring. 

Quentin curls his hand into a loose fist, and brings it up, presses it against his mouth, lips right on that line. Looks away from Peter, out into the distance, like he’s trying to gather his courage. 

“Quentin?” Peter breathes out.

He drops his hand then, slides it into Peter’s hair, and rubs the pads of his fingers over Peter’s scalp. “Yeah,” he says, softly, a little rough. “I— I mean. I think.” He clears his throat. “I think it was time, you know?”

Peter is so, so still.

“I mean,” Quentin continues, “they’re always, always going to be with me, a part of me, no matter what. But they're gone, and they're not coming back, and I have to accept that. I have to live with that, not thinking about the past all the time.” 

He pauses, looks down and catches Peter’s gaze. “I started thinking, maybe I should stop focusing so much on what was, and start focusing on now.”

Peter shivers, his breath catching as he draws it in. 

“It’s not— not like I could, would, ever forget them,” Quentin says, with a tiny little smile, “and I don’t need a ring to remind me. It’s a new year, so maybe... maybe I should try and clear my hands.”

“Quentin,” Peter says, his voice shaking, “you don’t— you don’t have to, it’s not, I’m not— I wouldn’t ask, I—”

“Oh, honey,” Quentin says, curling his fingers in Peter’s hair, “honey, no, that’s not— I promise you, that’s not what I was thinking. I’m not doing it out of some sense of obligation, or because I think you want it, or need it, or— or whatever you’re thinking, baby.”

“Promise?” Peter asks, still looking scared.

“Promise,” Quentin tells him. “It was just time. I was just— I was finally ready.”

“Okay,” Peter whispers, staring at his hand, unable to look away, it seems. Quentin reaches over, presses his fingers against Peter’s lips, softly, and Peter closes his eyes. 

Peter’s so smart, he thinks, so smart, and yet he falls so hard for the littlest things. 

Such a shame.


End file.
